


Holmes comforts

by marysutherland



Series: Blame Jeremy Bentham [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-08
Updated: 2011-11-08
Packaged: 2017-10-25 20:36:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/274521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marysutherland/pseuds/marysutherland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not easy being Sherlock's older brother, especially if you've fallen for his flatmate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A companion piece to [Tastes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/274087), giving the same story from Mycroft's point of view.

At forty-two, you were only middle-aged if you were going to live to be eighty-four, and Mycroft knew the genetic and lifestyle odds were against him. More than half his life over, and what had he achieved? A great deal in some ways, he supposed. He wouldn't go down in the history books, but that was precisely the point. The normal, the boring, didn't interest historians, but they were his speciality. All the complex manoeuvres of his work weren't important for their own sake: the aim, as anyone who looked at the wider picture could see, was to keep things stable, predictable, stop things happening. A rearguard action by the forces of order against the forces of chaos, the ones that wanted to build an allegedly better world on the foundation of broken laws and piles of corpses.

Twenty years trying to make sanity prevail had taken its toll. His health and his temper had both suffered, and as for his personal life, that had been the most drastic sacrifice. In theory, his sexual orientation wasn't a problem: in practice, after Blunt and Burgess and the rest, his recruiters made it plain that some of the more interesting jobs required men who were "sound". Mycroft closed the closet door that he'd tentatively started to open at Cambridge, and looked for a wife.

He'd been clear to Janet what sort of a marriage he was looking for, and since her concerns were to stay in Berkshire, maintain her social position, and have minimal physical contact, they'd got on well for years. She preferred dog breeding to straight sex, which Mycroft thought was fair enough. It had been inconvenient, however, that she'd run off with a judge at Crufts shortly before their twelfth wedding anniversary. The divorce was straightforward, especially since there were no children. Mycroft had accepted that as one of Janet's conditions, and secretly he'd been relieved. There were aspects of genetic inheritance he was pretty sure he didn't want to risk exploring, so it was probably safer that he had no children. Technically had no children.

One of Mummy's more irritating claims was her repeated statement that "the worst day of Mycroft's life was when Sherlock was born". And it was irritating because it was factually inaccurate. The seven year gap between them had been too large for Mycroft to feel threatened by his baby brother, rather than protective, and his toleration had survived the rampages of the three, four, five year old boy with the lightning smile and the lightning mind. It had been fascinating to watch his personality develop then. It was only at around six or seven that the real difficulties had emerged. When Sherlock started displaying the behaviour that was varied labelled as 'high spirits', 'conduct disorder' and 'viciousness'. When it became unmistakeably clear that the brilliant, charming boy also possessed the dangerous combination of an iron will, fearlessness, and an inability to put himself in the shoes of others.

Sherlock's parents and assorted consultants had wasted years, or so Mycroft considered, on arguing about the precise diagnosis and causes of Sherlock's problems, and on grandiose therapeutic interventions. It had been left to him to provide practical training to Sherlock on how to survive school, university and the world outside without getting beaten, expelled, or imprisoned. If Sherlock was a high-functioning sociopath nowadays, it had been largely down to Mycroft.

He'd had some successes. Sherlock was no longer an arsonist, and the vandalism and theft were now minor problems. He'd trained Sherlock to remember that dissections were to be limited to things that were already dead, and in the strict rules about the acceptable treatment of live animals. He'd got Sherlock off the wrong drugs and onto at least some of the right ones. He'd been less successful on other aspects though, and sometimes even Mycroft's commitment to taming the force of chaos that was Sherlock had weakened. But beyond even the utilitarian argument that Sherlock dead or unhappy would cause more grief than Sherlock alive and content, there was an unbreakable bond. Not so much love, as the eternal commitment to protection that he'd somehow absorbed from being the elder child. There were times when it seemed to Mycroft that primogeniture was an entirely reasonable compensation for being landed with a younger brother. There were even times he felt sympathy for David Miliband.

His experiences had honed his negotiation skills, of course. Once you'd had the patience to get a nutritional meal into a eight year-old fussy eater who could vomit at will, even the Argentineans started to seem reasonable. And over the years, he had made a surprisingly useful set of contacts from people he'd first met when bribing them not to take proceedings against Sherlock. Mycroft reminded himself sometimes that it had become slightly easier over the years: the situation with Sherlock had become, if not stable, at least predictably unstable, he could often foresee the disasters now and turn their edge. His diaries provided solid evidence of Sherlock's increasingly frequent moments of near responsibility. And Mycroft's own self-control had developed even further - the only craving he had left was for sugar. Or so he'd thought, till John came along.

He couldn't now remember what he'd thought, felt about John at their first meeting. No, that was inaccurate, and he had to be accurate. He had now overlaid his memories of the first meeting with so much other data that he could no longer be sure of his original impressions. Too many hours in the privacy of the locked study in his Richmond house replaying the footage, reading his notes from before meeting John, after meeting him. None of them revealed whether he had really recognised John's qualities immediately, as he should have done. Whether the tall, slightly shifty stranger that he saw on the screen really had been planning to do entirely inappropriate things when he'd touched the war hero's hand, or whether he'd just dreamt that in the weeks afterwards.

He'd rapidly had to repress his impulses towards John, of course, lock them up securely, because it was all too clear by the next time they met that John had fallen under the spell of Sherlock's charm. Mycroft had put a brave face on it, but he'd known the waste of a good man that would follow. John would be killed – an accident on Sherlock's part, but the accidentally dead weren't any less dead – or maimed. Or he'd be sucked into a hopelessly devoted masochistic passion, become a male version of Molly, all unrequited love and lust. Mycroft had never bothered to work out why Sherlock was asexual. As a child, Sherlock had shown an instantaneous and unbreakable antipathy to such varied things as lettuce, ballpoint pens, and Wales; there was no point in wondering why sexual activity didn't appeal to him.

It had been a pleasant surprise to find that John had more of a sense of survival than you'd expect from a man who got himself strapped into a bomb jacket within three months of meeting Sherlock.  Sherlock had not driven him to suicide, drink, madness, or most forms of murder. John had even, so he claimed to Mycroft, persuaded Sherlock to eat lettuce, as long as it had a few slug holes in it to analyse.

That was the other pleasant surprise for Mycroft, that he now had an effective channel for communication with Sherlock via John. He was sure that Sherlock had intended it as an insult, and Mycroft dutifully carried out a few token manoeuvres in response.  But actually it was delightful to talk to John rather than Sherlock, and even Sherlock's snide comments acquired a certain wry charm when delivered in John's deadpan tones. And it was so helpful for forward planning if he had some basic information on Sherlock.

***

"I've told you before, I'm not informing on Sherlock," John had said at one of their early meetings. "It doesn't matter what you offer me."

"I thought Sherlock would want you to take the money," Mycroft replied. "You could always feed me the odd piece of dodgy information if it'd appease your conscience."

"I do not inform on people," said John doggedly. "I'm not getting involved in your little games with Sherlock."

Trust issues, of course, thought Mycroft, and said: "Very well, but can you just tell me one thing before you go? In your considered opinion, is Sherlock currently happy?"

"Happy?" said John, as if this was an unfamiliar word.

"Content, satisfied. I know these are probably difficult concepts to relate to Sherlock. So perhaps we could just start with less impossible to live with?"

"Why do you want to know whether Sherlock's happy? Mycroft, you're not _actually_ concerned about Sherlock, are you?"

"As I've told you before, I worry about him all the time. But there is also the purely practical aspect that if Sherlock is unhappy, lots of other people tend to end up being unhappy as well."

"Why don't you just get all your surveillance team to tell you the answer?"

"Because they are from the British security service and thus peculiarly bad at identifying their own emotional states, never mind someone else's . My network is entirely adequate for telling me where Sherlock goes to in London and who he meets. It is singularly poor at telling me whether he's liable to contract scurvy, or is sleeping in the bath again."

"How did you guess, deduce that?" John asked.

"My dear John, it is, er, clear that you have neither showered nor cleaned your teeth this morning, which given your habits suggests an extreme reluctance to go into your bathroom. I'm sure you're capable by now of removing or ignoring almost anything that could be located there, except possibly my brother. Also, as I've said, he's done it before."

"Do you know why?"

"He found the running water soothed his insomnia, but we had to put a stop to that because of the drought orders. I discovered that a reasonable alternative was ice cubes on the sheets and a tape of sound effects. They probably have something on CD now, I'm sure I could find you something, if you were interested."

John momentarily had the look of someone longing for a nice simple war zone, but then he seemed to come to a decision.

"If you could give me tips sometimes on things to look out for, do, that would be handy," he said. "And in return, you don't actually need daily reports about what he's eaten and whether he's had a bowel movement, do you?"

"Nothing like that," Mycroft smiled. "Just the occasional reassurance that Sherlock's not likely to end up in hospital or a clinic any time soon. And, obviously, that neither are you. Sherlock never really learnt to play nicely."

"I'm not sure I did either," said John. "OK, I can do that."

***

Mycroft thought that John had come to enjoy their intermittent meetings as well. He suspected it was a relief sometimes to talk about cases afterwards, the things that couldn't go on the blog. And it was probably easier for John to discuss Sherlock with someone who would neither call him a freak, nor refuse to believe the more bizarre of John's tales.

By now, Mycroft had his own more unfortunate physical impulses under control: he was no longer missing whole sentences of John's in distraction at the angle of his jaw-line. Given that John was straight, a platonic crush might have been allowable, but it was still foolish. Besides, if he focused solely on the physical aspects, he would miss the simple pleasure of talking to someone ordinary. No, not ordinary, John wasn't that. But he was a man who could stay mostly sane in the midst of a mad world, and that was a rare quality.

It was because he had come to admire John, as well as long for him, that he was...disappointed when the surveillance revealed some of the less savoury aspects of John's private life. John was leading a double life, was he, getting off in seedy bars with men, while dating women? That was a concern, especially if it was a side-effect of associating with Sherlock. He was going to have to dig a little deeper.

Several weeks and some very discreet enquiries later, there was the faint trace of a pattern, if nothing conclusive. The good news was that it wasn't the strains of being Sherlock's flatmate that was driving John to this kind of recklessness. The bad news was that it was a habit of much longer standing. A dangerous habit. Mycroft supposed it was inevitable that anyone who could cope with Sherlock must have some psychological quirks. John wasn't the first gay in denial to end up in such patterns of behaviour – if Mycroft hadn't been so determined, he might have gone the same way himself – and as a doctor and a soldier, John could probably take care of himself in such encounters. But it placed him definitely on the side of the unsound, and thus taboo for Mycroft.

 Which was probably just as well. If John had been gay but respectable, it would have been very tempting to try and seduce him, despite Mycroft's inadequacies as a seducer. It was hard to be confident of your appeal at the best of time when you were past forty, your hairline was receding and your waistline expanding. It was almost impossible to expect anything but disaster if you would inevitably end up being compared to Sherlock.

***

It had been on his last date with a man that Mycroft had fully realised Sherlock's danger to his love life. A summer day in Cambridge, and he'd been about to take Gerry punting, Gerry with his long blond hair, and lazy eyes, and generous mouth. Mycroft knew a quiet place on the river to head for, and then he was going to teach Gerry to punt, which might require a little help with positioning his body. But just when they'd been about to leave Scudamore's, Sherlock had suddenly appeared, scrambling into the punt and grinning happily at the pair of them, as he sat cross-legged on the cushions.

"Where are we going?" Sherlock enquired. He'd been, what, thirteen then, Mycroft thought, shooting up, but his voice not yet quite broken, able to switch from seven to twenty-seven in a moment.

"You're going back to school right now," said Mycroft. The sole disadvantage of Cambridge was having Sherlock in the same city. Maybe he should have taken that scholarship to Yale.

"The Perse don't want me there, "Sherlock replied cheerfully. "I've got hand, foot and mouth disease, so I'm not allowed to go to school and infect them."

"And what about us?"

"It's not a big deal for adults, it's really just the titchy kids they worry about. And I'm not that infectious anyhow."

"Foot and mouth disease?" said Gerry, smiling at Sherlock. "Don't we have to shoot you and burn your body?"

"Hand, foot and mouth. Coxsackie A16," Sherlock said, emphasizing the first syllable of 'Coxsackie'. "I feel fine, but I have spots in some very strange places, do you want to see? And I have to keep sucking things to ease my sore mouth." Sherlock was giving Gerry a look that was a lot more knowing than it ought to be, Mycroft thought.

"Sherlock!" he barked, "Pick up a paddle and make yourself useful, because that idiot to our right is just about to ram us."

Sherlock had given the happy smile of a child, and gone back to charming Gerry in an entirely innocent way. Which hadn't stopped Mycroft breaking up rather spectacularly with Gerry that evening, and starting to wonder how a gay man found a wife. He'd picked the sensible option that time, sacrificing shadowy hopes, unrealistic dreams, for something solid and definite, with prospects. He wasn't going to let his feelings for John reverse that decision.

  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am hopelessly in love with a killer with serious trust issues, thought Mycroft. Who is also too short for me to be able to kiss him easily. This is really not sensible behaviour for a civil servant.

Mycroft's life continued to be predictably unstable until the afternoon in November when he was sitting in his office briefing John, and suddenly realised, from the ever-increasing pressure in his stomach, that wrapping up the meeting in a couple of minutes wasn't going to be soon enough.

"Excuse me," he gasped, and dashed for the bathroom at the back of his office. It was the one unusual feature: he had no desire for a fancy desk or a deep carpet, but he really did not like communal toilets. He got there just before he lost complete control, and was then grindingly, monotonously sick for what seemed like several centuries. After a while he realised that warm, firm hands were steadying his back and shoulders as he knelt over the bowl. When he finally stopped retching, John helped him up onto a chair, wiped his face, and gave him a drink.

"Came on very quickly, did it?" John asked. Mycroft nodded. "And does it hurt if I press there?" Mycroft shrank away from even the gentle touch on his stomach.

"What did you have for lunch?" John went on.

"A Slim Fast milkshake, and, and some millionaire's shortbread."

"Probably terrible for your system, but not in this way. Have you been feeling OK till this afternoon?"

"I, I wasn't feeling brilliant this morning, but I had to come in. I had important things to do, meetings to attend."

John sighed. "There are idiots and there are stupidly infectious idiots. What you have, almost certainly, is a norovirus. Otherwise known as winter vomiting bug. It's currently spreading rapidly through all the local schools and offices, and you've probably just helped spread it a little further. We'd better get you home."

"I can-"

"You can sit there, while I fix us a car. I am not having you throwing up on public transport, you're enough of a health hazard as it is."

"I-"

"Mycroft, just sit still and do what you're told for once. Because if you're not going to cause more short term damage to British Intelligence than Al-Qaeda, you need to follow my instructions."

***

On the way home to Richmond, Mycroft had been concentrating too hard on not being sick to say anything to John. And when they'd got there, and he'd tried to say he was fine, he'd been struck by another wave of nausea. By the time his next bout of vomiting had finished, John had installed himself in the house for the duration.

"You can't stay," Mycroft protested, "I really must ask you to leave."

"I really must ask you to stop being a bloody idiot," said John. "You need someone to look after you. I didn't see anyone at your office rushing to volunteer, I presume your mother wouldn't be up to it, and it would be medical negligence to leave Sherlock in charge of you. So unless you have any other suggestions for someone immediately to hand, you're stuck with me."

"My doctor-"

"Will say you don't need medical attention, you just need rest and fluids and you'll be fine by tomorrow. You need someone now, you need someone who knows about basic hygiene. You've got me. Now let's see if you've got a temperature, because you seem a bit feverish."

He lost track of the time after, everything blurring. The bathroom, the bedroom, the bathroom again, John helping him up, giving him drinks, changing him into pyjamas. And then back on the bed, and it was all falling away...

***

When he woke up, John was gone and there was a note by the bathroom door.

 _7.14 am_

 _Mycroft,_

 _Have had to go to Norwood, Sherlock has a case. I will try [this had been underlined several times] to come round again later today. Keep on drinking lost of clear fluids, paracetamol for the pain if you need it. Phone me if you get worse. Do not leave the house for 48 hours, or you will be doing the terrorists' work for them._

 _John_

It was the first time he'd ever seen John's handwriting, the careful precise near capitals of someone who didn't want anyone misreading a prescription. He found himself memorising its appearance for far too long before burning the letter. He was being stupid, he had to concentrate, make sure there was no further risk to John. He texted him rapidly:

 _Dear John, no need to call round, I have my own doctor on hand. Thank you very much for your help. MH_

It was only later that morning that he felt strong enough to go down to the locked room at the back of the house. Reluctantly, he switched on the computer and logged onto the secure network. Maybe, somehow, the watchers would have missed John, or not thought him worth investigating. Maybe they'd got tired, or bored, or were all down with vomiting bugs too. But no, near the bottom of the latest list of people for priority checking, they now had "Watson, John Horatio".

He texted John again:

 _Dear John, I need to see you urgently, but not at the house. Can we arrange a meeting elsewhere? MH_

John's reply was almost immediate:

 _If you're ill, call your own doctor. If not, what part of 48 hours at home don't you understand? You can buy me a drink after that if you like. John._

It didn't matter, Mycroft realised. The intelligence machinery had been put into motion already. Maybe it was better that John had a few more days in ignorance before he learned about the consequences of that.

***

"What is going on?" John demanded as he strode into the warehouse to meet Mycroft a few days later. "And why have you brought me here, rather than taking me to a pub? And...are you actually OK, I mean are you over the bug? It must have taken a lot out of you."

"I'm fine," Mycroft replied. "I'm afraid, however, John, that you have been compromised." He sat down; he wasn't going to try looming over John on this occasion. There was a chair for John as well, but John ignored it, standing looking sceptically at Mycroft.

"I take it you're not referring to my immune system," he said, "In which case, you're sounding like a bad Victorian novel. People don't get compromised in real life."

"You stayed the night at my house. There are people who...observed that."

"I've had lots of private meetings with you before. I could have stolen your codes or shagged you silly in your office ten times over if I'd had the urge to. And I stayed the other night for purely medical reasons. There was nothing..." John paused. "Or was there somehow something that someone could make look suspicious? I've heard of a honey trap before, but never a vomit trap. For God's sake, Mycroft, I was trying to help you!"

"I tried to get you to go, John! This isn't my doing."

"Then who is it, and what are they trying to do? Blackmail me, recruit me? What's going on that's got you spooked?"

"It's the CIA," said Mycroft.

"What?"

"I help them on occasions. As a result, I have certain unofficial access to their systems, their communications systems. From secure devices at my home, rather than anywhere on UK government property. As a result of that, we have an understanding that they will observe the house. Not inside, but if anyone goes in there, they will be logged and checked."

"So the CIA are now checking up on me?" said John. "Can't they just ask you lot for my file, it would save time."

"They probably will," said Mycroft. "And it will reveal details of our previous surveillance of you. Including...certain encounters of your. Sexual encounters."

"Oh yes, you've been tracking me through gay bars, haven't you?" said John contemptuously.

"You knew?"

"Two months ago, I saw this rather nice young man in a club I was in. Slim, blond, not much taller than I was, vaguely intellectual look-"

"- answering to the name of Robert or Robbie," said Mycroft resignedly. "What happened?"

"I asked him if he'd like some action, and he said perhaps in thirty minutes, when he finished his shift."

"While the Service has many wonderful staff," Mycroft said, "we do still have problems with nepotism. We really should not have given Robert Kuryakin a job. But anyhow, John, yes, we've been watching you. Yes, we know that you're gay, bisexual, whatever. Yes, we know that you're playing some potentially dangerous games, hooking up with strange men. And now the CIA will know that as well."

"Well fuck the CIA," said John. "I don't care anymore."

"They could out you."

"I think I might as well out myself anyhow," John said. "I've been thinking about it more and more even before Robert. I mean, given that almost everyone knows or suspects already, MI5, the CIA, probably the Met. And Sherlock must have worked it already, just as I've worked Sherlock out."

"Sherlock isn't interested in sex," Mycroft said automatically, and then added more cautiously, "At least, he never has been."

"No, but he's not interested in men in a different way from the way he's not interested in women. He's really, really not interested in women."

"You may be right." It was disconcerting to feel that John now knew Sherlock better in some ways than he did. But of course, you could never imagine your younger brother...doing things.

"Anyhow, whatever I do won't faze Sherlock," said John. "So I come out, and the CIA can go and fuck themselves. Which they probably do anyhow, to cut down on the surveillance required."

"There's still the..." Mycroft desperately tried to think of an euphemism for 'sex in squalid toilets', "transitory nature of your encounters."

"So I'm guilty of poor judgement about relationships? I'm a flatmate of Sherlock's, that's probably true by definition. I-" John suddenly stopped and looking down assessingly at Mycroft, folding his arms.

"And what's it to you, anyhow? Or is it not just my judgement that's being called into question here, but yours? That you don't want people to think you're gay? That's what's really worrying you, Mycroft, isn't it, concern for your own skin, not mine?"

"No," said Mycroft, and he looked firmly into John's eyes. "I, well, maybe it's time for me to come out of the closet as well."

There was a flicker of a smile in John's eyes and then it was gone.

"You're gay too, are you?" John said coolly. "So it's just me you're embarrassed about . Don't want people to think your taste runs to dodgy ex-soldiers with a commitment problem, that it?"

He had nothing left to lose. "I, I would be honoured if you were interested in me," he forced out, his mouth stumbling over the words.

"Fancy me, do you?" John's voice was grim now.

"I adore you," Mycroft said, and found to his own astonishment that his voice was calm.

"Prove it!" John snapped back.

"What?"

"You're trying to mess with my mind, but I'm not having it. I've had enough of your damn games, Mycroft! If you really go for me, then prove it."

 _What on earth do I do?_ thought Mycroft frantically. _Lie on the floor and let him trample over me?_ He wasn't entirely sure he wanted to get within reach of John at the moment, he had the look of a man just about to snap and invade somewhere. Not the solid coolness of the last time he was here...oh, that gave him an idea.

"Hold out your hand, Dr Watson, John," he ordered, standing up, "Left hand."

"Steady as a rock, you see," said John, "You were right about that."

"I'm right about a lot of things," said Mycroft, and stretching across, he grabbed John's hand, lifted it and started kissing his palm.

His palm, and then his wrist, and now Mycroft's long arms meant that his other hand could reach out to stroke John's taut cheek, and suddenly they were edging round one another in a circle, and any minute now John was probably going to thump him, but the feel of his warm skin was so wonderful...

"If you sit down," John said abruptly, "it'll be easier to kiss you."

Mycroft collapsed into the chair and John fastened his mouth on his. I'm forty-two, thought Mycroft, and practically the UK government, and I've never been kissed like this before. By the time John broke away, Mycroft was trembling.

"That proved it?" he managed to gasp out.

"Yeah," John said. "Want to take it further?"

He was compromised already, no time for compromising now: "Yes, I do."

"Somewhere we can go? Nearby? It's a bit uncomfortable here."

"There's an office at the far end. It's not much, but there's a carpet, at least." Thank God John hadn't suggested the toilets, thought Mycroft. He wasn't sure even for him he could have coped with that.

"OK. We need supplies. Is there a condom machine in the toilets?"

"I, I'm not sure."

"I'll check. You go to the office. Got any alcohol, by any chance?"

"Alcohol?"

"I'm fine, but you look like you need a drink, relax you a bit. I'll come and find you in the office." John strode off.

This was presumably what the army was like, thought Mycroft. Well, too late to stop now, time to go over the top.

***

"I remember there's a bottle of something for medicinal purposes in the bottom drawer of this desk," Mycroft said when John appeared in the office, "but I can't find the keys." For once he wished that he had let Sherlock teach him to pick locks.

"You go over there and get undressed," said John. "I'll deal with this." As Mycroft took off his trousers, he heard the wood of the desk splinter. What had he got himself into? But he couldn't back down now. He rapidly took off the rest of his clothes and then drank a few sips of cheap brandy straight from the bottle that John handed him. John didn't drink anything, and his hand wasn't shaking. He had taken off his trousers and pants, but not his socks or jumper. Mycroft wasn't sure if these were good signs or not.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked nervously. "I...it's been a very long time."

"I'll try and remember," said John. "Come over here and lie down."

It was exhilarating, if rather painful, but it wasn't exactly what Mycroft had hoped for. John was trying to be considerate, but he was obviously in a hurry, business-like rather than tender. I wonder if he's always like this, thought Mycroft, and then remembered. There probably wasn't much call for slow seductiveness in John's normal encounters. Even as almost of Mycroft's brain was overwhelmed by unfamiliar sensations, a tiny part was thinking: is that what John likes? Can I cope if it is?

He knew he had guessed correctly about John from the way he put on his pants and trousers rapidly afterwards, without ever taking his eyes off Mycroft. Someone used to sex in the danger zone. Mycroft lay where he was on the floor, and tried not to look threatening. Which wasn't hard, because despite everything, he couldn't help having a ridiculously sloppy grin on his face.

John, on the other hand, looked wary and slightly baffled, as he looked down at Mycroft, as if he wasn't entirely sure what was going on, and didn't feel he could ask. The silence between them lengthened, unnervingly. And then John mumbled something that sounded like 'Thank you', and bent down and kissed Mycroft very lightly, not on his mouth, but the point of his chin. He turned, and hurried away.

I am hopelessly in love with a killer with serious trust issues, thought Mycroft. Who is also too short for me to be able to kiss him easily. This is really not sensible behaviour for a civil servant.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What next for Mycroft and John after their encounter at the warehouse?

You weren't supposed to phone someone after a date because it looked needy. On the other hand, what had happened at the warehouse could hardly be counted as a date, even on the loosest of definitions. On the third hand...I have to think this through carefully, Mycroft thought. If I give myself free rein I will start talking or writing interminably about my feelings, and that will almost certainly have John running away. Stick to a text: I can't betray myself in 160 characters.

That was inaccurate as well, of course: _Come live with me and be my love_. Or: _All the privilege I claim for my own sexuality, is that of loving longest, when existence or when hope is gone_. But he mustn't be self-indulgent. What was important was not what he wanted to say, but what John needed to hear.He knew Mycroft's feelings: all that remained was to ask his verdict on them. No, not all that remained. He was still haunted by memories of the warehouse. John hadn't been troubled when he'd been face to face with a supposed criminal mastermind, but he had been when dealing with a lover. That was...worrying.

One text to express all he felt, and any message he sent was liable to Sherlock's interception, since he daren't risk John's position further by contacting him at work. So his words must be comprehensible to John, but not Sherlock, which was...difficult. It took him hours to work out what to say, and to nerve himself to send it:

 _Please consider taking this project further, if not with me, then at least someone reliable. London is a dangerous place I worry about you and SH constantly. MH_

Its punctuation was inadequate, and some of its implications deeply unfortunate, but at least it was unlikely to get Sherlock suspicious. And he was very sure he did not want Sherlock knowing about John and him.

He didn't have to wait long for John's reply:

 _Screw you. JHW_

Abrupt and profoundly ambiguous. He did wish John could understand that texts conveyed no tone of voice.

***

The next three weeks made it clear that John's message hadn't been intended literally. Mycroft supposed it was hardly surprising that he hadn't measured up to John's expectations. He very carefully resisted the temptation to start a run on the pound, or organise a new initiative by the Met vice squad, because that would be childish, but he did give in to the regrettable impulse to send Robert Kuryakin on long term secondment to Saudi Arabia. And to turn up to 221B Baker Street after 23 days of no contact.

"You've lost some weight," said Sherlock blandly. "In fact, you're looking almost gaunt. Coalition giving you trouble, or is it the strategic defence review finding we can't afford to start any new wars?"

"You've been watching Channel 5 news again," said Mycroft. "An excellent start. I want to discuss Brazil with you. You know, big country in South America, where the soya beans come from." During the conversation, he batted off Sherlock's sneers absent-mindedly, his focus on John, sitting there watching them, silent and unsmiling. Which might be about him, or Sherlock, or the strategic defence review, or just his shoulder hurting him. He couldn't read John, he'd never been able to. And he couldn't speak to him, with Sherlock here.

"I'll make some tea," John said at last, getting up. "Want some?"

"I'll come and help," said Mycroft, but he knew once he got into the kitchen it was hopeless. He could hardly slide the doors shut, and Sherlock's hearing was acute. John put on the kettle and then stood and looked up at Mycroft, an empty mug clamped between his hands. To hide the fact that his hand was shaking? Or wasn't shaking? To stop Mycroft trying to kiss his palms again? He didn't know, he couldn't get through to this compact, shielded, silent stranger in front of him. There were no words, no gestures possible.

But then, as the kettle started boiling, Mycroft looked round and saw the wipe-clean message board on one wall, half-filled with John's neat notes on shopping to be done. He went over and wrote rapidly beneath the list: _Can't we at least stay friends?_

And suddenly John was beside him,his palm smearing across the whole board, list and all, so that the heel of his hand was stained with red, and then scribbling in an unfamiliar scrawl: _Warehouse tonight 7 pm?_

He handed the pen to Mycroft, and their fingertips touched, and Mycroft smiled, and wrote _YES_. And then he took out his handkerchief and began to clean the board very carefully, as he explained to John the benefits of internet grocery shopping.

***

He was sitting in the office of the warehouse, having some of his own, drinkable brandy when John arrived. He didn't look a man who wanted to shag Mycroft senseless, more like a small boy in really serious trouble, skulking with his hands in his pockets. He sat down opposite Mycroft and eagerly gulped down the glass of brandy that Mycroft offered. There was a long pause.

"I should probably apologise," John said at last.

"No need," said Mycroft automatically, and then quickly started on the speech he prepared. "Let me say first of all, John, that I'll do anything, almost anything that you like. So tell me what you want, what turns you on, and you can have it, I promise." It would probably help, he thought, if he could start sounding seductive, rather than terrified. He also suspected that his body language was shouting 'Not toilets!' so loudly that even John could deduce it.

Well, maybe not at the moment. But at least John was actually looking at him, which was a start.

"Tell me what you want," he repeated, and he knew there was a hint of desire in his voice now.

"I don't know!" John burst out.

"Sex?" said Mycroft, trying not to look at the brandy bottle, because a drinking session with John was really not going to be a good move.

John nodded, and then said: "But I don't, I don't know who I am anymore, what part is me."

You're a gay killer with psychological problems, who looks on the verge of some kind of breakdown, Mycroft carefully didn't say. You're just about to be outed by the CIA for sleeping with your flatmate's brother. It's perhaps not surprising that you're having an identity crisis. But he was even less well equipped for therapy than seduction. He had to try and get through to John somehow.

"What do you like doing?" he said to John. "Prefer?"

John shook his head. "I thought I knew, but I, I'm not sure anymore."

It was a puzzle now, and Mycroft was good at puzzles.

"Warehouses," he said. "You wanted to come here tonight. It was OK last time. What's good about warehouses?

John was thinking, which was at least a start.

"It's easier," he said at last. "If I'm trying not to be me, be a different me, a warehouse...because it's not quite normal...but I can't explain properly."

He's spent so many years hiding from himself, thought Mycroft, that it's not surprising he hasn't got the vocabulary for what he feels. But I have.

"There's an effect of alienation, isn't there?" he said. "The large empty space, where you should normally have people and noise, the semi-darkness, and there are shadows at the corner of your eyes where something that you can't quite see clearly could be lurking. It feels dangerous, but it's not a romantically creepy space, but rather banal, mundane, the real world is literally right outside. It's just that you might not be able to get outside in time, and a warehouse may well have strange dark corners where a body could lurk unseen for days."

"Are you reading my mind?" John said, and there was a subtly different worry in his voice now.

Mycroft smiled: "Why do you think I bring people to warehouses when I want to menace them? You wouldn't get the same effect in Starbucks, would you?"

There was a sudden answering smile from John: "I'm sure you could be menacing even in Starbucks, Mycroft."

"Thank you. But I'm not trying to menace you tonight, John, I'm trying to make you comfortable. So would you like this warehouse or prefer another one?"

"You have a network of warehouses?" John asked, with a hint of a giggle.

"Of course. Well, they're not actually mine, but I borrow them. I can show you some of the others if you like, but I do prefer this one."

"I think, so do I," said John, and some of the nervousness was back. "I'm always happier if I'm somewhere where I know where the escape routes are." John's hands were now gripping tightly onto the chair arms, Mycroft noticed, as if the very mention of 'escape'had him bracing himself to run.

"It's not surprising you feel like that," Mycroft replied, as calmly as he could.

"You don't think that's weird?"

"You work with Sherlock: I'd call it common sense to be prepared to make a quick exit at all times." And there was a cue there, he thought. He stood up and came round the desk, spreading his arms out: "If you should need to evacuate the building, the emergency exit can be found on your right. Proceed through the warehouse, do not stop to receive your possessions..."

John was laughing, and Mycroft was tempted to start trying to kiss him, but he still looked like someone who might explode if touched. He settled for sitting on the carpet beside John's feet, trying to fold his long legs out of the way. Dear God, this seduction business was bad for the back, wasn't it? He looked up at John.

"What else do you want, need?" he asked, trying to make it sound as if it was an entirely normal question, the equivalent of 'What would you like to drink?"

"I don't know," John said, and the bafflement was back again. "What I'm used to, it's how it is, because of me hiding things away."

"By what you're used to," said Mycroft slowly, "you mean quick encounters, where you don't even want to get undressed because it leaves you vulnerable, and you don't want to be hanging around afterwards, and you certainly don't have time to talk."

"Yeah, it's not romantic, just functional. Get stuck in, get out, before-"

"Before it gets dangerous? It is dangerous, you know, you could get attacked one of these days. It could get...violent." He broughtout the word reluctantly, but he had to know what John wanted.

"I know." John's voice was quiet, matter of fact.

"I...I said anything for you, John, almost anything, but I don't like violence, I'm scared of it. But you, you like danger, don't you?"

"I don't enjoy violence," John replied, and there was a sincerity in his voice that made bringing up the people he'd killed seem unfair. "But I am used to it, it seems almost normal now."

"And you like danger, don't you?" He knew the answer even before John nodded. "I can try and do things, be things, but I'm not good on danger. I'm very ordinary."

"Ordinary is good, nice," said John. "I don't know I want that kind of danger anymore. It's fine when you're young, there's a thrill even: the anonymity, the release, escaping your own boring self. But I'm nearly 40, I've had enough of that, I'm scared as much as I'm turned on half the time now. It's not the physical danger, so much...but I could get laughed at, arrested, wreck my whole life for a ten minute thrill. Not good."

"If it's not what you want, don't do it."

"But it's a habit now. It's how I cope."

"I'm quite good at helping people get into better habits, even if they don't immediately see the need to." Mycroft said. "But for now, why don't we just concentrate on getting comfortable?"

He pulled off his own shoes hastily, and then, more slowly, reached out and very carefully began untying John's shoes. John let him do that, let him pull them off. He wondered about starting on John's socks, but he wasn't sure what the reaction would be. But he did let his fingers circle and drift over John's ankle bone for quite a while before he risked looking up again. He thought it was starting to work, that there was a tension in the way John held the chair arms now that wasn't purely about running away.

"I don't like violence," Mycroft said slowly, "and I think we should have quite a safe encounter. So I should probably prove to you," he added, as he pulled off his jacket, and started unbuttoning his shirt, "that I am not armed." He stood up once he had stripped, making the most of his height now. Though six foot something of naked civil servant was probably not a very appealing sight, he suddenly realised, trying to hold in his stomach.

"Turn round," John said, and Mycroft did so. God, he felt exposed with someone behind him, no wonder John preferred keeping his clothes on in such situations. He stood still, halfway between arousal and terror. He wasn't sure exactly what John would do, or even exactly what he wanted him to do. He wasn't supposed to be the one with trust issues, but even so, he flinched momentarily when John's fingernail ran gently down his spine. But now it was time to stop thinking, and start feeling: obtain and collate intelligence, not attempt to analyse it. John was right behind him now, though he could hardly hear his breathing over the sound of his own. Still partly clothed: the soft fabric of John's worn shirt was pressing against his back, but beneath that, John was naked, aroused. He'd eventaken his socks off, which was...encouraging.

"There are all sorts of ways a man can carry a concealed weapon," John said, and his voice was rough, and his hand was sliding down Mycroft's back.

"You'd know," said Mycroft softly, "probably better check carefully."

"Good idea," said John, and Mycroft could hear the smile in his voice.

***

The sex was better that time, if still a little painful. Mycroft was starting to feel more comfortable using his body; John was starting to remember that the body he was using had a personality attached. He even stayed long enough afterwards for Mycroft to explain the dead letter boxes they should use to arrange the next encounter.

The sequence of encounters went on into the new year, and Mycroft knew patterns were beginning to emerge, creating something that wasn't yet a relationship, but was at least an ongoing connection. They were starting to meet more often, not just when John's restlessness became unendurable, beginning to work out what the other liked, what helped them, what didn't. That a bed was really better for Mycroft's back than a floor. That you did not approach John from behind without advance warning, or his body would react to danger faster than his mind could stop it. That Sherlock was not to know about their...situation.

"Why not?" John had asked, when Mycroft has insistedon this.

"Because he's not good at sharing. He never has been."

"But he's not interested, so what does it matter to him?"

"He disrupted my dates, when I used to have them," Mycroft pointed out."He's disrupted yours. Don't you think it would be double the opportunity for him to meddle?"

"I suppose so," said John, and then went back to removing Mycroft's cufflinks.

***

"This is rather nice," said John, as he sprawled slightly limply on the hotel bed beside Mycroft a few weeks later, "the bed's a bit narrow, but the shower was nice and hot."

"Clearly marked fire exits, as well," said Mycroft, and then realised he was being tactless. "I'm sorry, I know that's not important anymore."

"I could get to like this kind of comfort," said John, "it'll be hard to go back to warehouses now."

"I was hoping," said Mycroft, "to take you somewhere rather more luxurious next time."

"Sounds good."

"I have a proposal to make, but it requires some rather complicated explanations first." He hoped he wasn't being rash about this, he thought, it was a delicate matter. "I need to explain to you about developed vetting."

"I presume that's nothing to do with animal health, but I'm a bit blank otherwise."

"Otherwise known as positive vetting. It's an enhanced kind of security clearance for particularly sensitive government jobs. Not just checking files, but actively investigating a person's life and background."

"Oh, yeah, I remember now. I had a friend at Barts used me as a referee once for something like that, for some hush-hush research job. This bloke, spook came round and asked me all kinds of things about Danny. How much did he drink, did I think he was cheating on the exams, was he sleeping with anyone else in the department, male or female? It was bloody intrusive stuff."

"They ask you at your own interview if there is anything in your own past that if it came to light would be a potential source of embarrassment. They can't look into your mind, thank goodness, but concealing any of your actions from the vetting staff is a risky business. They're very thorough, and very slow. The whole thing can take up to a year."

"So you had this when you went into the civil service?" said John.

"Yes, and I have to submit to regular revalidation, though I'm not due one for several years." said Mycroft. "In fact, unfortunately, due to some of my more unusual responsibilities, I am subject to an even more stringent form of vetting, network vetting. Any significant contacts of mine have to undergo positive vetting as well, to ensure their suitability. You may perhaps have wondered why I didn't attempt to find another partner, of either sex, after Janet left me?"

"I didn't like to ask. It's not just that you're married to your work, then?"

"No. It might be possible to find someone attracted to a boring middle-aged man of rather staid habits," said Mycroft, "but if you add to that the prospect of being positively vetted, it's a definite passion killer."

"You..do you really have to wait for a year before you can date anyone?" John demanded.

"No, you can begin a relationship, but if the vetting division decide your partner is unsuitable, you either give them up or you give up your job."

"And you put up with this? You can't have any kind of proper relationship? And you presumably can't even do what I do, did, and have a few meaningless encounters, because they'll find that out, won't they? You poor sodding bastard, Mycroft." John said, rolling over to look at Mycroft. "Why the hell do you put yourself through this? Is the power really worth it?"

"Did they let gays in the army when you joined up, John?" Mycroft said calmly. "They didn't, did they? And yet you still became a soldier, you thought it was worth it. I consider what I do to be important, vital even, to many people's well-being. And I have been used to making personal sacrifices for the good of others for most of my life."

"Sherlock, you mean?"

"Yes."

John's brow furrowed. "But how the hell do they square Sherlock with positive vetting? They don't get much more unsuitable than him, do they?"

"Sherlock has, on occasions, been of vital assistance both to our own government and certain other ones, For the purposes of positive vetting only, he is therefore considered by both the Service and the CIA as unproblematic."

"They think Sherlock's OK? My god."

"Extended contact with him, such as sharing a flat with him, isn't a problem. Which is very useful in your case, John."

"So this is now going to get me sucked in, is it?" said John slowly. "Have I got this right? Because I'm involved with you, I have to be positively vetted, and they will discover all my lurid past, and you'll have to choose between me and your job. Or have you already had to decide?"

"No, at the moment you can still come under the heading of transitory contacts," said Mycroft. "But if we take things further, it will be a different matter. I mentioned I had a proposal for you, John. It's by way of being, well, not actually a proposal, but something vaguely similar."

"Do I want to know where this is going?" John asked, sounding surprisingly business-like for someone who was completely naked.

"The British civil service has certain systems in place to ensure its impartiality. If civil servants have particular interests in a company or an organisation, for example, they are required to register this officially. There is a somewhat similar register that is used on occasions for more personal matters. If someone, for example, starts a relationship with someone in their department of a more senior grade, they are required to inform the personnel department of this, to ensure there is no question of favouritism in the future."

"You can't even sleep with your own colleagues on the quiet? Does anyone in the civil service ever get any action?"

"Yes, provided that we register our interests. Which I would like to do regarding you, John, if I have your permission."

"I'm flattered, I think. But, I mean, aren't I completely unsuitable? I'm really not the kind of man you can bring home to MI5. There's...there's the cabbie, and the ASBO, and the handling stolen police ID, and-"

"All involving Sherlock, and thus by definition, not a problem." Mycroft said.

"And the dodgy sex in bars!" John burst out. "They're not going to like that. God, even I can see it looks pretty messed up now."

"The service is surprisingly tolerant of past indiscretions," Mycroft said. "If you make a clean breast of your past at interview, it will be embarrassing, but it shouldn't be a problem."

"You know," said John, sitting up and looking down at Mycroft, "six months ago I was happily in the closet, and now I'm having to discuss my sex life with assorted civil servants."

"Were you really happy in the closet?"

"No, it's worth it, I suppose...I know."

"What I'd like to do tomorrow then, is invite you to my house," said Mycroft, "which will of course, get logged by the CIA, and they'll liaise with the Service again-"

"Who can tell them I am now officially down on the list of People Civil Servants are Allowed to Shag, presumably. That's fine. Any other countries need to know about my private life?"

Mycroft paused. There was one more thing more he had to say, and he still wasn't sure if he dared to. But none of this could be made to work if he didn't explain properly.

"The Service are the only one who really matter," he said at last. "But, I said they'll be prepared to overlook previous encounters. However, if there were to be future behaviour like that, it would be...awkward."

"You're saying I need to give up quickies now I'm with you?" John said with a sudden surge of anger. "Don't you trust me? Have you been keeping tabs on me all this time, check if I'm cheating on you? Which I haven't by the way." He stood up abruptly, and turning his back on Mycroft, started putting on his clothes.

"No, I have never demanded, I have never asked you about that, you must admit it," Mycroft protested.

"You don't need to ask, do you, you've had all those surveillance teams watching me all along. It's not just me who's got trust issues, is it?" John pulled on his jumper and swung round, arms folded, to glare at him.

It would be easier having this conversation if I was dressed, thought Mycroft, trying to sit up and not look ridiculous.

"I haven't...," he said at last, "I...when we, I knew this was going to continue, that you wanted it to continue, I established a procedure. I arranged with Anthea that she would redact any irrelevant personal information about you from the surveillance reports before I saw them. I have observed many aspects of your life recently, John, but not that, I swear."

"I've had Anthea looking at my personal details as well? Do I have any privacy left?"

Mycroft's urge was to curl up in a ball and hope this would go away, but he forced himself to stare into John's taut, hostile face.

"I can give you anything else, John, I can try and give you anything else, but that I cannot give. Both the Holmes are in the spotlight in our own peculiar way. You cannot associate with Sherlock or myself and remain anonymous. You will be exposed in almost every way. If you want to turn back now, I understand."

And suddenly there was that determined tilt of John's head that Mycroft loved, and he was saying coolly: "The British army does not turn back, Mycroft. Not once the action's begun."

"What if you're charging towards the cannons, the machine guns?"

"Not even then," said John and smiled. "What time tomorrow?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warehouses are one thing, but it's a real commitment bringing John to Mycroft's house.

Occasionally Mycroft had fantasised about inviting someone back to his house, regardless of the CIA and the Service, and then seducing them. He'd wondered about possible techniques: how, after an enjoyable evening socialising, you might wind up getting someone to sleep with you. Now, he had to work out a kind of anti-seduction: how did he get a man who was prepared to have sex with him to have some enjoyable socialisation beforehand? He had to try and slow things down, get John used to pleasure, different kinds of pleasure.

"Come in," he said when John arrived, a little uncomfortable in a suit and briefcase – was that for him, he wondered, or the CIA watchers? "I thought we might have a drink and then something to eat. But first of all, would you like a look round the house?"

"That would be...nice," said John, who was obviously not at all sure of the etiquette of such occasions either. "Though I have to admit, I've seen a bit of your house already. I was wandering around at one point, the night you were ill. I'm sorry, it was probably nosy of me."

"That's fine," said Mycroft. "But I hope you didn't try and get into the locked study next to the dining room."

"No, I left that alone, Bluebeard." There were times when John let slip that he wasn't quite as uncultured as he normally appeared.

"Good. Not that you'd have able to get past the locks, but if anyone tries to get in, certain pieces of equipment need to be reset."

"That's sounds suitably sinister. But otherwise your house wasn't quite what I expected it to be."

"In what way?"

"More...normal than I expected, doesn't quite fit with your image."

"Go on," said Mycroft. It was always interesting to see how someone without the Holmes' instincts could nevertheless learn to observe and analyse. John had at least a hint of a talent for deduction, if not the speed or the vocabulary yet. "Start with my image and then say why the house doesn't fit."

"Very calculated, but very understated power, prestige, taste. In the way you dress, your manner, your office, the places you go to. You make it clear you're superior, but you're not showing off."

"Which is, of course, just a more subtle way of showing off," Mycroft replied. "People want a certain suave Machiavellian quality in someone of my profession. It persuades them, perhaps even me, that spending days pouring through paperwork on Chinese trade policy is, in fact, the next best thing to being James Bond."

"And then you use irony to undercut the whole effect of superiority, like the minor civil servant bit, which actually kinds of boosts it," John went on. "But this, the house, it's not ironic, is it? This is what you want, what you are."

"One side of me at least."

"A bit sort of ordinary. No, I'm sorry, I don't mean that. But not intended to impress, to make a statement."

"No," said Mycroft. "This place is about comfort, a relaxing bolthole from the world outside. I spent rather too much of my early life living in impressive, but very uncomfortable accommodation, so I knew what I wanted when I had somewhere of my own. But I'm forgetting my manners. Come into the living room and sit down. But I wouldn't recommend the sofa."

"Why not?" said John, with the cautiousness of someone used to Sherlock's ability to booby-trap furniture. "It looks...comfortable." He was carefully not saying "shabby", Mycroft noticed.

"It is, for me. It took me a lot of hunting to find one deep enough that when I sit on it my thighs are properly supported. But it's because it's ideal for my height, that it's less so for yours. I think you'd be better off in the rocking chair."

"I have to admit, I couldn't see you sitting in this," said John, sitting down and absent-mindedly starting to rock, "though it's surprisingly soothing."

"Sherlock finds that too."

"He comes here?"

"On occasions, it's been a refuge for him as well. When he's been...overwhelmed, particularly needed somewhere quiet, safe...clean."

"Why do you do all this for Sherlock?" John asked abruptly. "When he's so ungrateful, takes people so much for granted."

"Why do you keep on sorting out Harry, even when you disapprove of her drinking?"

"Because," said John.

"Exactly. That reminds me, I should have offered you a drink. Brandy?"

"Thanks." It had become part of the routine between them now, the routine that helped say that it was an ongoing relationship, not simply a string of one-off encounters.

"I'll get you some. And then, if you like, you can inspect my books while I make supper."

***

"Most of the books are work-related, I'm afraid," said Mycroft, when he returned from the kitchen a little later. "I have hope of eventually getting it all on a flash drive, but the Arabs in particular are very behind on e-books. The shelves of fiction on this side are probably all that would interest you."

"Comfort fiction as well," said John.

"Well spotted."

"Not systematically organised like the other shelves, old favourites, not fashionable stuff. Nothing on war, politics, the harshness of real life. Bit of fantasy, lots of humour. And no detective fiction, of course."

"Any of it that you've read, that you enjoy?" Mycroft asked.

"I've read one or two of the Banks ones, a few Pratchetts, but I haven't kept up with him. And I never got into Jane Austen, she doesn't think much of soldiers."

"She's more positive in some of her books. And, of course, she's full of repressed English people making polite conversation to hide their unsatisfactory love life, it's no wonder I read it. But maybe not to your taste. Do you like Kipling?"

"Don't know, I've never kipled," John retorted. "OK, I know it's an old one. The thing from here that I most like is PG Wodehouse. I got into him after the TV series, but the books are better. I almost asked to borrow one or two of them the time I was here before, when you were ill."

"If you would like to do so, please take them," said Mycroft, trying to sound positive, even as he thought, Sherlock will know, Sherlock will know.

"Maybe later," said John. "You know I used to sit in Afghanistan sometimes and read these, take me away from it all."

"Some corner of a foreign field that is forever England?" said Mycroft, and suddenly it came tumbling out: "I'm sorry you had to be there, that I didn't stop it."

"Could you have done?" John looked at him in surprise.

"Not that one. If you try and stop a tank with your bare hands, you just get run over. My masters knew, know that much. It's just that they persist in their delusion that if you agree to get into the tank, you then get a say in where it goes. I've not been having much success in preventing wars this century."

"It doesn't matter," said John. "It's fine, well, not fine, but you know. It's what we do, what the army does."

Mycroft could tell that there was a wall there that he shouldn't push further for now. "But the books helped?" he asked instead.

"Yeah. You can lose yourself in Wodehouse, forget reality, enjoy being in a place where nothing can ever go seriously wrong. I guess that's always been the way. Didn't he keep on writing stuff even in a POW camp?"

"Something like that, yes."

"And of course," added John, "there's a certain weird satisfaction in reading about Bertie, who's even more hopeless with women than I am." He paused, and then suddenly smiled: "Well, maybe that was his problem, too. He should just have come out, and then he could have lived happily ever after with Catsmeat Potter-Pirbright."

"Not Catsmeat," said Mycroft firmly, "Brilliant but unsound, not really Bertie's cup of tea. Well, I can't shimmer out, but I can go and get you your supper. Our supper."

"OK," said John, as Mycroft came back in, "I was guessing larks' tongues before I came, but now I reckon shepherd's pie."

"Salmon, new potatoes, peas. I don't have a talent for fancy cooking, but the best kind of English cuisine is top-notch ingredients that you cook in the simplest way possible. And by the way, there's no need to bolt your food. Sherlock's experiments will take all evening."

"I know. He's been completely furious since he got this preprint from some Italian professor about pollen identification...and, and how did you know about that?"

"Professor Fumelli no longer allows Sherlock to know his e-mail address, following a previous incident, but I sometimes forward things of interest onto Sherlock for him. So relax, and enjoy the salmon."

***

"That was wonderful," said John, as they finished dessert, "but I am completely sticky now."

"You can't eat ripe peaches neatly," Mycroft replied, licking his lips more than strictly necessary. At some point in the future he desperately wanted to lick peach juice off John's fingers, but tonight was probably not the night for that.

"I'd better clean up," said John. "Is it OK if I use the bathroom?" There was the hint of a challenge there.

"It's fine," Mycroft said blandly. "You remember where it is, I'm sure." You could hardly get finicky with a man who'd seen you repeatedly dry retching. "I'll see you...in the bedroom then."

"You know," said John, as he entered Mycroft's bedroom a few minutes later, "the one thing in this house I really, really envy is the bath. How did you get one so huge?"

"Special order. I find most baths far too cramped for me."

 "I could probably lie full length in it. Drown in it."

"I'm sure you can swim. And the hot water system is extremely efficient. If you like hot baths, that is?"

"My mother thought that we should have a maximum ten minutes in the bathroom each. And then I've had the best part of twenty years of communal bathrooms, plus some deserts. And now there's 221B."

"I have repeatedly offered to upgrade the less satisfactory bits of your flat's plumbing."

"You know it wouldn't stay nice for more than a day."

"If you'd like a bath later, you're welcome," said Mycroft. "As hot and as long as you like. I've even got some of the soap you normally use."

"Is that all, Mycroft?" John demanded, giggling, "Surely you've got some exotic stuff of your own? Essence of Russian spy, or something like that."

"I like the way you smell," said Mycroft, and didn't add: And Sherlock knows what I smell like.

After the sex, which was so much more enjoyable in a comfortable bed, as Mycroft had expected, John went and had his bath. And re-emerged, to Mycroft's surprise, in pyjamas, looking rather small and vulnerable, as if he'd shrunk in the wash.

"I know you said an evening," John said, "But I wondered if you'd be OK with a sleepover?"

"I have always wanted to sleep with you, John," said Mycroft. "Why don't you come to bed now?"

***

 Mycroft hadn't expected John's nightmares, and it took him a few disconcerting moments as he woke up to work out who was thrashing around in his bed. Then he got his arms around John, who murmured "sher, sher, sher" and woke up abruptly. And Mycroft stroked his hair, and replied 'sh, sh, sh', in what he hoped was a comforting way, and neither of them mentioned whose name John had been about to call.

***

When Mycroft woke next, it was half past six in the morning, and John was dressing rapidly, his nervousness obviously back.

"Better head off," John muttered. "Sorry I can't stay for breakfast."

"Have you got a shift?" asked Mycroft, wishing he'd checked beforehand.

"No, it's just I need to do things, get back to Baker Street as soon as possible."

"I'll get a car to come round," Mycroft said. "Easiest thing for you." It was rash, but it might get him quarter of an hour more with John.

"I'm not sure you can claim me on expenses," said John, "the CIA might disapprove."

"A private car, completely Anthea-free."

"Thanks. You've, it's been really good, last night. Thank you for having me," said John, whom stress was obviously rapidly driving back into childhood etiquette.

Mycroft smiled: "It's been lovely having you. I'll phone for the car, and then you should come here and give me a nice goodbye hug."

They managed twelve and a half minutes before the car arrived.

***

Two hours later, Mycroft's phone rang at the work. The private line, the other private line. And John's voice, halfway between pleased and worried, said: "Sherlock sort of guessed about us, so I told him. Not about the registered interest bit, but that we were seeing one another. I hope that's OK?"

Mycroft made reassuring noises for several minutes, and after he'd hung up, came very near to swearing. Sherlock knew now, did he? Oh, help.

  



End file.
